


After Midnight

by sweetvampirous



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Addiction, Bisexual FP Jones II, Consensual Kink, Dorks in Love, Fat Shaming, Feeding Kink, Food Kink, Friends to Lovers, Good Parent Fred Andrews, M/M, Mentioned Archie Andrews, Mentioned Gladys Jones, Mentioned Jughead Jones, Mentioned Veronica Lodge, Mildly Dubious Consent, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Public Display of Affection, Romance, Romantic Soulmates, Semi-Public Sex, Size Kink, Sneaking Around, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, Worried FP Jones II, feedee FP Jones, feeder Fred Andrews
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 17:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19398733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetvampirous/pseuds/sweetvampirous
Summary: New customers are just always the typical “sugar,” “honey,” or “sweetheart,” maybe something a little better, more flirtatious if he was trying to get tips as a server; but he knows everyone in this damn town and Fred’s name is the only one that rolls off his tongue like molasses and danger.





	After Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Extreme weight gain kink ahead. Don't read if you're fatphobic.

“Hey, FP.” Fred smiles, rounding the corner to greet his boyfriend as he enters the diner, “Wondering if you’re open?” He asks with a small laugh, feeling a bit awkward. Pop’s had closed ten minutes ago, so Fred took advantage of the time passing, watching every car leave the lot except for FP’s so they could be alone in the diner; occupying himself with his own outfit as if today would be that one day since they were kids for the Serpent to suddenly be invested in fashion, and Fred’s in particular. A wide smile creeps across FP’s lips, clearly suppressed and a bit goofy - but he wasn’t about to look like a fawning kid just because Freddie Andrews walked in… although sneaking around Riverdale and their kids felt - was - every bit of that same fawning that started off too long ago. 

It’s become second nature in the last year to get up to serve the customers, so FP doesn’t even think before mumbling out, “’ Course we are, Freddie.” New customers are just always the typical “sugar,” “honey,” or “sweetheart,” maybe something a little better, more flirtatious if he was trying to get tips as a server; but he knows everyone in this damn town and Fred’s name is the only one that rolls off his tongue like molasses and danger. Finally alone in the restaurant, Fred seats himself on the customer side of the counter, eyeing the half-cake in the stand by his resting elbows with a knowing smirk. He doesn’t know how FP even manages to make his nickname sound so filthy. It’s echoing in his mind, thrumming in the empty diner. His serpent’s voice makes him melt like butter, sink into the stool just a bit more and feel a little younger all over again.

Normally, FP has to lean onto something: a table, a booth, the wall, anything to just rest before he can make it the rest of the way to the customer, and he’s thankful Fred doesn’t tease after the hours he’s spent on his feet suffering under what he’s done to himself; but Fred knows this. He’s sweet, soft and considerate. Has always been that way, as far as FP remembers, can see those same adoring qualities carry on in Archie.

“I’m sure surprised the rest of that didn’t up and leave the stand the second you were left alone in here with it,” Fred hopes the confection is enough to keep FP’s gaze distracted by his massive appetite just long enough to unbutton his flannel shirt that one more notch he decided against in the parking lot… Flirting just wasn’t that easy anymore. Fred’s not looking directly at FP anymore, but his lover’s eyes never slide off the man in front of him. He had to walk by that damn cake display for hours without a taste, but a simple action looked so much more delicious, better than cake - better than porn, even. FP has no choice but to drink it all in. Fred is delicious, damn it. Always has been. 

“You’re gonna start in on me with that?” FP laughs softly, a lustful growl holding back in his tone, his nod leading Fred to the waiting fork beside the stand’s base. He hasn’t rested in hours, and leans heavy on the strong countertop now; he thinks the back and forth all day is enough to offset the calories he’s been consuming all day and is about to dig into - was about to dig into before Fred’s text lit up his phone. “You know Pop said he’d fire me if I put on any more weight…” It was a concerned threat, of course, one to hopefully urge exercise and, at least, a diet along. 

Fred knows, as well as anyone who's been through the diner, that for FP, walking requires effort… and a lot of it. He’s seen his share of big guys, especially in the construction business… but there’s never been anyone like his secret-boyfriend. Maybe on television, something under the guise of education, half way between exploitation and morbid curiosity - something he definitely shouldn’t have palmed himself about or went looking on his computer for. He’s been encouraging this since finding out fast that Pop lets him take home leftovers and they discover this thing between them when FP put on that first fifteen on top of that cute beer gut. He decidedly ignores the tinge of sadness this originated from. The business either boomed or hit all-time lows; and FP just ate, and ate, during all that downtime. Fred wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You know he wouldn’t really do that,” Fred insists truthfully, “He cares about you and Jug,” he figures otherwise, FP wouldn’t still have a job here. He takes the fork and slides the glass cake stand over, taking the glass lid off like it was something to be revealed. “Actually,” he purrs, eyes slowly wandering over what part of FP wasn‘t hidden by the counter, “He said if you reach six hundred pounds… but, that’s a when thing, isn’t it?” 

FP Jones. Fat. The two didn’t really seem to go together as much as FP and beer. Getting fat required money, and he hadn’t had money in all his life for overindulgence. He was damn lucky to get food outside of school, and even luckier to be able to put food on the table for his own family. Providing for Jughead was hard enough, despite his new size, the feeling of going to bed starving until the feeling became so common he forgot he was hungry in the first place, still lingers. The embarrassment of sneaking leftover food off customer’s plates only alerted Pop to how serious his situation was. Now he found himself morbidly obese off those same leftovers and sweets.

“When?” FP chuckles the word as he repeats it back, barely an audible repetition. With both hands coming to linger on the curved slope of his belly, he gives it a couple of pats for Fred’s longing. The rhythmic sound drives Fred wild. If the revelation wasn’t enough to get him hard then that did it. “I’m still working here, ain’t I? ‘Scale stopped working about a hundred pounds ago... But damn,” he breathes hard, ”I know I passed it this week, Fred.” As far as being fired was concerned, he figures he still has a bit of time to work his charm and renegotiate those terms. His uniform feels too small today, even the apron that usually rests comfortably on him, he’s had to ask Delores to adjust it twice today; it feels stretched over his colossal body, rather than some kind of security to hide behind. Fred nearly drops the fork. He feels it slip through his fingers when FP reveals that he’s not only over the limit Pop set for him, but has rocketed past it. He knows the older man is just worried about FP and nothing more. Fred couldn’t believe his ears, his fantasies for his boyfriend’s body soar, so many visuals and ideas running through his mind as he cuts a slice of cake off with the side of his fork. 

“Chocolate cake isn’t as good without vanilla ice cream on the side… I’d ask if you want me to get the whipped cream, but I’d really have to be an idiot to ask that question, huh?” Watching Fred pick up the fork is the only motivation he needs to push his weight up off the counter and let his abused feet take it in its entirety. He walks to the cooler, a task he would have tried to pass onto the overworked waitress if it was for a customer. There’s no denying he’s gasping for breath as he waddles from the counter to the ice cream case nearby, and back again… it takes forever just to bus a table and get to the kitchen. 

Fred tries to come up with something clever, and can’t. “Bigger,” is all he manages to say until FP is in front of him again, “All of it. A-All of the whipped cream… I- I can’t have you starving,” Fred trips over every word like a stunned teenager.

“Not sure how much bigger I can get,” FP replies, eyebrow quirked. It’s more of a he doesn’t want to think about it sort of thing. If not for the glint in Fred’s eye that tells FP how he feels about all of this. His grin is shark-fierce, emptying a spray can on the exposed cardboard side of the tray and laps his tongue slowly over the tip of the can. FP is not by any means subtle when it comes to anything in his life. He eyes the piece of cake that Fred has prepped on the fork like a starving man, grabbing it greedily and taking a dollop from the pile of whipped cream before popping it into his mouth. A low moan escapes his throat, the hand not manning the fork rubbing a slow circle over the apex of his belly for show. It’s as if he hadn’t already polished off the other two cakes, the tier of donuts aside from their ‘excuse take out bag,’ Fred texted him about, and what was left of the assortment of pies. “Thank god for being short-staffed, and these slow nights lately, hmm? I didn’t get to see you all day,” he comments over another bite of cake that’s more whipped cream than cake, FP knows this little meeting wouldn’t have been happening otherwise.

“For the life of me, I couldn’t slip away from Archie long enough,” the older Andrews feels bad just saying it about his wonderful kid, “He says I’ve been spending too much time here. I hope he’s chalking up the way I watch your gorgeous body waddle around to shock instead of… You know,” he makes a non-committal gesture and tries to keep the subject changed until embarrassment weans. “Jughead is at the house, and the girls ended up coming over, too. I tried to buy us enough time.” Fred lost track of when exactly he got shy about these things, and truthfully, FP has too. He remembers their high school days, being led into the woods and fucked against a tree by the river all by Fred’s plan. Then again… FP has never looked like this. His body never really got Fred all flustered back then. Those football built muscles never did a thing for his man. 

Fred watches each forkful in it’s path to FP’s mouth. He loves the times when his lover is eating and eating, barely coming up for air until his lungs really needed it. “I told you I’d take care of you,” Fred reminds him when he can breathe himself. He doesn’t comment on the what or why, FP knows. It’s remained unspoken since the first time they approached FP’s current mobility issues, and Fred’s desires to have a happily content and immobile FP to come home to after work. He leans into the countertop, watching his boyfriend fill himself up while teasing. The satisfaction of the whipped cream heats Fred to his core, wondering if maybe he should have sat at a table opposite the counter after all. 

“Yeah. You did. I have a son to take care of,” FP reminds Fred as if it was news for the first time, “I thought I could lose all this before Gladys and Jellybean come back. It’s bad enough Alice looks at me and makes the comments that she does.” The sharpness to his tone is one he barely uses, saves for those particular moments when it seems like Jughead is headed down his same path, minding Fred to drop the subject before he’s ahead. There’s some hint of sadness that Fred knows and picks up on after their lifetime together. Fred sighs deeply, openly making his disappointment in FP and himself clear just for thinking that his boyfriend would cave in. Fred knows that it’s a flighty situation for the love of his life to be in and that he might be prioritizing his own fantasies over FP’s life.

FP swears he isn’t into this the way Fred is, but it’s happening. He even swears losing nearly seven-hundred pounds is, ironically, a “piece of cake,” and has told just about everyone in town that. Whether they have more decency than Alice, no one has said a word. Embarrassment isn’t his worry, not the way he’s sure it is for anyone else his size. All of Riverdale probably expected FP to drink himself to death, he would take bets on that. Maybe they expected it sooner than later, but instead, he thinks they will all have to settle for an oversized casket instead and pick out the strongest people in town to help Jug carry it. Truly, he doesn’t care about any opinions other than Fred‘s at the end of the day. 

He promises Jughead he’s trying to lose weight, while in the same lack-of breath, he’s asking about lunch at Pop’s even when it’s his day off. He pants heavily just from the task of getting up off his bed, Jughead successful at getting him on his feet at the third try and his father is rubbing the massive mound of his belly, mentioning shakes, burgers and fried chicken, after the long list of what he’d like to have alongside a big stack of pancakes for breakfast. FP can move, but it takes him longer these days, waddling his fat belly around, his gigantic ass wobbling behind him. As long as Fred wants to fuck it, it’s more than fine, and he’s been so overeager lately that they’ve risked getting caught on multiple occasions. He wants to be bigger, fatter - for Fred’s fantasies… and himself. They aren’t his own fantasies, at least. FP loves the way his body feels, the way food comforts him like no liquor has; but he won't tell anyone that fact, especially not Fred. He would take it too far… as if they haven’t already. Something about it seems wrong, makes it seem like this really has become a problem as much as alcohol is. 

FP is impossibly addicted to food, to the feeling of every inch of his immense size, warm and comforted by his fat... and the dreamy, lustful look in Fred’s eyes every time they meet up. It’s the first time he’s really enjoyed life. FP is dangerously close to immobility; gluttonous attention fully focused on eating, gorging until his belly was satisfied, until it hurt, until he couldn’t eat another bite. The feeling of fullness rarely came anymore, his swollen hands, close to being swallowed up by the forearm fat pillowing around what used-to-be wrists, never without a delicious treat; fat fingers pushing more and more down his throat until he was panting, barely able to breathe. The last time he felt too full to fill his bloated, heaving stomach any further he had to guilt himself into hunger, eating until there was nothing left. This addiction wasn’t nearly as bad. 

Admitting is the first step, right? Decidedly, he isn’t going to do that. He also wants that high school six-pack that beer destroyed, and impressive biceps back. Those two things alone keep the edge off a meltdown over having an addictive personality. The trailer is getting much too small these days, too. He thinks about it every time Fred brings this up; how nice it could be having their relationship out - things were different these days, right? Jughead’s friend walked around town with everyone knowing about his sexuality. FP can’t imagine what that would be like, can’t picture it, can’t even think of a scenario where this would be alright, let alone accepted… and now? Then they’d just say how much better Fred could do… and they’d be right in every damn aspect. Still… it would be nice to just relax and let Fred take care of him. The trailer isn’t nearly big enough for mobility aids, rails to hold while he’s waddling through the tight space from the bedroom to the living room. What he doesn’t want is to end up one of those people that has to get cut out of their home and hopes for a heart attack instead of leaving Jughead in his own Gilbert Grape nightmare.  
“We’re not discussing this again,” he comments, realizing he’s been quiet between shoveling cake down his throat, “What’re the kids working on, exactly?” FP spends the next several minutes finishing the cake in what little dignified of a manner someone of his size could, and certainly no showmanship behind it. FP saves begging for food during those moments he’s alone with Fred just because it gets the other man off every damn time. He’s going for boring while his thoughts linger, toeing the line of starting a fight and shutting himself the hell up so he could get fucked into submission.  
“The kids are working on an article… Veronica tried to explain the situation, but I was busy thinking about how to get to you while they’ve got Archie and Jug preoccupied… All their work is laid out over the kitchen table. The place is a mess,” Fred knows FP is trying to guide the conversation away, so he tries for a laugh and at least has much more to fantasize about while watching every forkful of cake going into his mouth, sliding down his throat beside ice cream and whipped toppings, pushing against the walls of his stomach and wishing every bite made him bigger. Maybe, if he stops talking about it, lets it go unmentioned, that with the way FP struggles on his own feet now, that he’ll end up eating himself into immobility sooner than later.  
It’s the best view he’s had all day. “Is this all you’ve had tonight? I thought you liked being fat,” Fred pushes again, gently, leaning across the counter to take a swipe of cream from FP’s mouth. That was a sexy move, right? He smiles, but it’s at the idea of Alice’s disgust. 

“Half a cake?” FP laughs immediately, too loud and too amused, coughing a bit on the bite in his mouth and choking it down. It was like suggesting he got this way off salad and cardio. “Freddie, I might like this,” the Serpent lowers his voice as if someone else would overhear them, sliding the glass tray away and adjusting his body to lean over the counter as much as he could. Every movement calculated, every shift causing ripples throughout his girth. Even the support of the counter is something to be grateful for when you’re too terrified and embarrassed to even try to sit somewhere; then judged for sitting on top of it. His lips are fixed in a grin, abandoning that urge to fight he desperately wanted to pick, as soon as the excess cream was stolen. He swallowed the last bite, staring into Fred’s soulful eyes. Even his chest, with each fat breast resting out over the round bloat of his belly, wobbles as his breath heaves. His brown eyes dip down for a moment before resuming his stare, “But I like seeing you get off on it a whole lot more.”

FP has always been more direct than Fred would like, but he knows their relationship today would be nothing but a passing thought, wishes even, if FP didn’t initiate something. Fred knows he’s lost that part of himself a long time ago, but it’s still so easy to get FP face down in a pillow, but everything improper leading up to it always has Fred’s mind flailing for support. He misses that confident guy that got to toss a serpent into bed without thinking twice. “Seeing me…” It’s Fred’s turn to repeat nonsensically, drooling through his nerves and trying to will his dominate side back up. “Is there… anywhere… here…” Fred starts when FP’s yes train in on the obvious bulge straining against his denim jeans. There is and always has been a booth since they were teens, he doesn’t need to ask about it now, taking his boyfriend’s size and comfort into the equation. The memory sparks even more strain. He waits for the signal loss in his brain to fizzle out before speaking again, the shape of FP’s wet, pink lips dabbled with crumbs and the plushness of his two chins he just has to mark. Another chin looks to be popping through; a couple more dishes of fried chicken would take care of that.

“Jughead will probably stay over at our place tonight if you wanted to finish closing up… We could have your bed. It’s been a while.”

There was another perk to losing weight; getting fucked in their favourite booth again. FP barely remembers when he could still fit in one of those casually. What has it been, a year? The smile he gives in return to Fred’s shyness is nothing but dirty, “Is there? … There what? Is there anywhere you can fuck me in public?” FP asks the question for him, glancing up outside the diner and into the darkness; wondering if Fred had a thing for getting caught in here… or maybe it really just was anywhere at all. 

The idea is irksome, and Fred thinks FP will always be wrapped up in who Senior said he should be, what he expected, instead of what was really going on here. He knows if it was up to FP that they would always have this metaphorical barrier between them, and it isn’t much better than his own shy and awkward nerves. Combined, he guesses they balance one another out. Luckily, FP catches Fred’s eye line before his mind can dissolve any further into self-pity. 

“God yes,” Fred can’t help himself. His mouth blurts it out before he can think before he can put a sexier spin on that. Public or not, he just wanted to share what has been going on between them for years. He’s been pushing it more, and more. Fred wants to walk down Main Street holding hands with the Serpent King - former that is, to kiss him in front of everyone, for FP to send divorce papers to his wife and give up that stubborn pride so that they could live together on the North Side. Drink coffee on the porch together. 

Fred’s window shopping on his grotesque physique is always welcome, the only time he doesn’t mind being stared at with a calculating eye. “Aren’t you supposed to be picking coffee up for them?…” FP is suddenly uncertain, more confident through sneaky texts and whispered phone calls.

Coffee… and - and what was FP saying? Fred comes back to reality and out of his simplistic daydreams when the word comes from his lips as if FP was reading his mind. “Yeah. Coffee… oh,” it was on the opposite counter getting cold. Fred is sure their kids are just being studious at home, so he doesn’t mind insisting, “No one has called to see where I am. We have time… if we leave now.”

If Fred didn’t return and they were caught back at Sunnyside together, it would have been suspicious; or maybe his anxiety was getting caught ahead of his brain and mouth. “We can make here work,” he says suddenly. Jughead was smarter than both of them combined. His words come a little too quickly and he mentally damns himself at it. How they’ve made it this long without getting figured out… FP doesn’t have a damn clue, wonders if Fred has said something to Archie, and there’s an agreement to not bring it up - but in reality, he must have been too embarrassed to say something. Had to be. He sighs with frustration, gesturing between them since the point wasn’t getting across… “Here. Now,” public works... Sometimes. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it. 

“I’m not going to just get on the counter, Freddie,” despite the small width compared to his own, his kid fucking eats there… So much for the Andrews’ kitchen table the past several years; it’s got FP’s fingernails embedded into it, half moons dragged through the whole thing. For everything wholesome about the man he loved, Fred just isn’t subtle. FP grabs him by that loosened collar of his flannel shirt, happily noting the lack of tee under it, and pulls him forward. Fred feels strong and powerful with FP by his side, always has. Loves it, even more, when FP is throwing his weight around in a fight. Walks behind him with a pack of Serpents in tow. Loved that he still uses his strength to grab him over the counter. Remembers the last time he grabbed someone by the collar and knocked them the fuck out. It’s a feeling he’s never had on his own. FP isn’t sure if he would have climbed onto it if he was thin again, but there was no way they were fucking on top of this. 

“Y’just going to sit there, or what…?” FP breathes, placing a soft kiss on his boyfriend’s lips. Brief. Chaste. Affectionate with a hint of lust behind it just to lure him out.

That feeling rushes through Fred like an instant transfer through his veins when FP kisses him so sweetly. Fred scrambled across the counter in a hurry, wants bad to take FP on it even if there’s zero possibility. He presses himself up hard against the plush fat, kneads his restrained cock against him, keeps his lips locked on FP’s, his tongue wiping across the taste of chocolate cake and cream. His hands roaming everywhere, at every curve and roll of FP’s delicious body.

“Get against it, then. Now,” Fred hopes the command in his voice is enough to make FP desecrate his workspace.


End file.
